LOSING THE GLOVES.
“I TELL you what, Frank, you are getting extremely snappish and
disagreeable,” Prescott said one day to his friend, “the sooner you
go out of town the better.”
“Do you know, Prescott, I quite agree with you. I am. I am sick of
this sort of life, and I want a change.”
“You were talking of buying a yacht, Frank. We are in June now. If
you really mean to do anything in that way this year, it is time to
be seeing about it.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man. You know what I mean. I want to go down into
Staffordshire again, but I don't see what excuse to make.”
“I suppose the proper thing to do, Frank, is to write to Mr. Drake to
ask his permission to pay your addresses to his niece.”
“What a fellow you are, Prescott! You do make the most ridiculous
propositions of any man I ever met.”
“It is a pity you did not ask her before you came away, Frank,”
Prescott said, after a pause.
“How could I, man?” Frank said irritably. “I was there little over
three weeks, and I was not sure about myself for the first fortnight.
If it had been summer, and we had had picnics and all that sort of
thing, where you can manage to get alone with a girl and make your
running, it would have been different; but in a house full of people
I had no opportunities whatever. It was only that last week too that
I had quite made up my own mind about it. You don't suppose a woman
is like a peach, and that you only have to open your mouth for her to
fall into it. Katie is a good deal too great a prize to jump at the
first bait. Besides Katie and I fought so, and, I confess, I teazed
her so much, that she got to look upon everything I said as chaff,
and if I had told her I loved her, the chance was she would have
laughed in my face, and serve me right too. I don't think she had any
idea I really cared for her, and I believe, upon my word, that at one
time she positively disliked me. At any rate it was altogether out of
the question my speaking at the time, and it would be just as absurd
my writing to her now. Besides, writing about those sort of affairs
is a mistake. Things that sound real and earnest enough when you say
them, look mere sentimental bosh when they're put down on paper. No,
upon my word, I don't see my way. It's little over two months since I
left, and I can't offer to go down again, especially in June—there
is no excuse that I can see. There is no hunting or shooting, if I
did either, which I don't. What the deuce could I want to go down
into Staffordshire in June for?” And Frank, in extreme perplexity,
looked at Prescott for assistance.
“You have quite made up your mind, Frank?”
“Of course, my dear fellow, am I not telling you so?”
“Well, Frank, in that case what I should recommend is this. I should
really write to Mr. Drake, not a formal letter, you know, but a
friendly straightforward one, say that you are desirous of paying
your addresses to his niece, that in the confusion and the number of
people in the house you had not the opportunity of doing so before.
That you are perfectly unaware of her feelings towards you, and that
you are desirous of being a short time in her society again before
you speak to her, and you therefore ask him if he will again extend
his hospitality to you. I think that is about the way to put it. You
might ask him to say nothing to Miss O'Byrne respecting your visit,
as it might cause an awkwardness between you.”
“By Jove, yes!” Frank said, “I would as soon do battle with a lioness
as meet Katie O'Byrne, after our late encounters, if she knew for
certain that I had come down to make formal love to her. No, no,
Prescott, it would destroy my chance altogether. I must request
absolutely that Katie shall know nothing about it. She may guess what
she likes. She can't take a high ground because she guesses, but if
she were officially informed of it, I should no more be able to hold
my own with her than I should to fly. Altogether I think it is a very
good idea. Yes, I will write at once. Now, Prescott, you dictate it,
you have a legal mind, you know, and I will write. But what do you
say to writing to Teddy instead of to Mr. Drake? I can ask him to put
it to his father, you know, and it will be less formal—eh?”
Prescott said that he saw no objection, and in that case he did not
think he need dictate the letter. To this Frank agreed, and wrote as
follows:—
“MY DEAR TEDDY,
“I dare say what I am going to tell you will surprise
you; but, the fact is, I have really fallen awfully in love
with Katie O'Byrne. Now, you see, last time I was down there I
had not time to make my running. There was too much going on,
you see, and too many people about. Now I do think, Teddy, I
could make her happy if she could care for me. I want you to
give me a chance. Will you speak to your father and mother and
tell them what I wish, and ask them to allow me to try to make
Katie in love with me. You can mention that, so far as means
are concerned, I have eight hundred a-year of my own, and Uncle
Harry, you know Captain Bradshaw, has always treated me as his
son, and no doubt at his death I shall come into a considerable
fortune. Should they offer no objection, will you write and ask
me to come down again for a fortnight, but above all, Teddy,
do not let a word be said to either your sister or Kate. If
Sarah knows it Katie is certain to find it out, and I could no
more face her in that formal sort of way than I could fly. It
would knock any chance I might have completely on head. Write
soon, Teddy, for I shall be in an awfully nervous state till I
hear from you. Be sure and keep it dark as to what I am coming
down for—say you have asked me down to do some hunting, or
something of that sort.
“Yours ever,
“FRANK MAYNARD.”
Teddy Drake received this epistle at breakfast, and its contents
threw him into a state of profound astonishment. He had not had
the slightest idea of Frank's feelings towards Katie, and when he
recovered from his astonishment was most delighted. He had given one
long whistle of surprise when he had arrived at the second line, but
had read on to the end in silence without heeding the questions of
the girls as to what was the matter with him.
“Now, Teddy, what is it?” Sarah asked as he finished. “What does
Frank say, to surprise you so?” for Teddy had apprised them who his
correspondent was before he had begun to read.
“Is it what does he say?” Teddy repeated, in order to gain time to
invent an answer.
“Yes, of course, Teddy, how tiresome you are.”
“Frank is thinking of becoming a monk and joining a holy community.”
“No, don't be talking nonsense, Teddy.”
“Well, Sarah, he's talking of going out to Arabia and becoming a
dancing dervish.”
“Don't ask him, Sarah,” Katie said indignantly; “if he doesn't choose
to tell us, sure and we don't want to know. Come along, we will go
and practise our duet.”
When they had left the room Teddy turned to his father and mother:
“Frank has written to ask me to ask you to let him run down again, to
make love to Katie.”
“Really, Teddy, you talk so much nonsense I do not know when you are
speaking the truth,” Mr. Drake said, while Mrs. Drake uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
“I am as serious as possible this time,” Teddy said, and he read out
a portion of Frank's letter.
“I am very glad,” Mrs. Drake said, “and to think I had never guessed
it. I am so glad, he is such a nice fellow, and it will be a very
good thing for Katie. Don't you think so, Robert?”
“Yes, my dear, I do not see any objection in any way. Mr. Maynard is
a little too rackety to suit me, but I do not know that that will be
any objection in Katie's eyes. By all means, Teddy, write and ask him
to come down; and try and don't do anything foolish, if you can help
it, or speak about his coming. If you had not made a sort of mystery
about his letter this morning we could have mentioned naturally
enough that he was coming down for a short time for change of air, or
we could have made some excuse or other. As it is it will be better
to say nothing about it, and leave him to explain matters for himself
as best he can. Ask him to come down, say on Tuesday. There is the
gig at the door, are you ready, Teddy?”
Upon reaching his office, Teddy Drake sat down to write to Frank
Maynard.
“MY DEAR FRANK,
“I am delighted at hearing that you are smitten by the
archer boy (isn't that the delicate way of putting it?) and
especially that the person by whom you are so smitten is my
cousin Katie. By the way, according to that way of putting it,
Katie would be the archer boy, which is absurd. So my metaphor
is wrong somewhere, but after reading it over several times,
I can't for the life of me see where. However you see what I
mean, and Katie and the archer boy have both somehow had to do
with the business, but they've got mixed up together till I
can't tell which is which. Seriously I am awfully glad, Frank.
To think of your falling in love with Katie! I never dreamt of
such a thing, and the elders are equally surprised. Now that
you have told me about it, I fancy that Sarah may have had some
suspicion that there was a weakness somewhere, for sometimes
when your name has been mentioned, she has been rather inclined
to chaff Katie, which Katie has resented very seriously. My
father sends word that he shall be very glad if you will come
down and stay with us again, and named next Tuesday. Come by
the ten o'clock train in the morning, it gets here at three.
I will meet you at the station. I have read as much of your
letter as was necessary to the elders, and they as well as
myself are pleased at the thought of you and Katie coming
together. We shall strictly obey your injunction, and say
nothing to the girls about the object of your coming. Indeed we
shall not say you are coming at all, for I was too surprised
when I got your letter to invent any excuse at the time, and
if I were to say anything about it now, they would think it
was odd I did not mention it at the time, and would suspect
something was up. If, however, you would rather not take them
by surprise, write a line by return of post, and then I will
say that you have written to say you are coming for a few days,
on your way, say to Ireland. On reading over this letter I find
it is barely coherent, but I dare say you will understand it.
“Yours very truly,
“E. DRAKE.”
Katie O'Byrne had thought more often during these two months of
Frank Maynard than was at all satisfactory to herself. She had so
repeatedly asserted that she did not like him, that her assurances
lost power even with herself. At last, however, she could no longer
shut her eyes to the fact, but was forced to own that she had been
deceiving herself all along, and that she did like, yes, like Frank
Maynard very much. It was with deep mortification that Katie made
this confession even to herself, because, in spite of what Sarah had
said, she did not believe that Frank had ever thought of her, and
because he had so teazed and made fun of her, that she told herself
she ought to hate him. Still when she thought over that sentence
about the sea, and the quiet tone in which he had said, “Yes, Katie,
you will believe me some day,” the colour would mount up into her
cheeks, and she would think that perhaps after all he did care for
her. But although Miss O'Byrne came at last to own to herself that
she had been wrong, and that she liked Frank Maynard very, very much,
she was by no means disposed to make the same concession to Sarah.
So, whenever her cousin turned the conversation to the subject, said
how she missed Frank, and wondered whether he would ever come again,
Katie manifested such perfect indifference upon both points, that
Sarah at last came to the conclusion that she had made a mistake, and
that there was no chance of her ever winning the gloves.
On the Tuesday afternoon, the girls were together in the
drawing-room, which looked over the lawn.
“Teddy has gone down to the station has he not?” Katie asked.
“Yes, he ordered the dog-cart to be at the office at three, in time
to take him to meet the train. I wonder what he can be up to, for
when he said so, he winked at mamma, and she shook her head and
frowned, but smiled too; I wonder what it can be about?”
“Indeed and I don't know,” Katie said, “and I don't suppose it's
worth guessing about.”
“I don't know,” Sarah said, “there has been something going on for
the last two or three days between Teddy and mamma, some quiet joke,
and I am not sure papa is not in it too, for I have seen him smiling
two or three times to himself, when there was nothing going on to
smile at; and do you know, Katie, I have half an idea that it's
something about you.”
“Faith, and I'm not curious, Sarah,” Katie said composedly, “Teddy
will be back in a few minutes, and the secret will keep till then.”
Presently they heard the sound of wheels in the drive, and Sarah
said, “Come along, Katie, we'll catch him in the hall, and see what
he's brought,” and she went out followed by her cousin.
As they went into the large hall, the front door was opened, and
Teddy entered followed by Frank Maynard. Sarah uttered an exclamation
of surprise, and hurried forward to meet him; as she did so, Katie
whispered indignantly, “Sarah, I hate you; I'll never forgive you.”
“Why, Frank,” Sarah said warmly, “this is a surprise, I am glad to
see you again.”
“And I'm glad to be back again, Sarah.” Then Frank turned to Katie,
who was coming forward slowly, and rather reluctantly, for she
felt that her cheeks were telling unmistakably that she was not
uninterested in this unexpected arrival. Frank greeted her with, “How
are you, Miss O'Byrne?—but I need not ask, it's charming you're
looking any way.”
“Don't flatter yourself that it's from pleasure at seeing you again,
Mr. Maynard.”
“Don't say that, Miss O'Byrne, it's downright cruel; I've been
picturing you to myself sitting with your watch in your hand,
counting the minutes to my arrival.”
“You are wrong, anyhow,” Katie said with indignant triumph, “for I
did not even know you were coming. Teddy,” she said, turning to her
cousin, “why did you not tell me Mr. Maynard was coming down?”
“I asked him not to say anything about it, Miss O'Byrne,” Frank said,
seeing Katie was really indignant, “either to you or his sister, I
thought it would be a surprise, and I hoped a pleasant one.”
“And really and truly did not you know, Sarah?” Katie asked, for up
to this time she believed that it had been a plot on the part of all
the others to keep her in the dark, and that Sarah especially had
endeavoured to surprise her by bringing her suddenly upon Frank.
“Really and truly, Katie, I had no more idea than you had.”
“Well,” Katie said, mollified, “in that case I forgive you, Teddy,
I thought you were all tricking me. I didn't mean to be cross, Mr.
Maynard,” she said frankly, “only I thought I was being made a fool
of, and I hate that,” and she shook hands with him again and looked
up unflinchingly at him with her honest eyes.
It was not until evening that, when Sarah was playing, Frank had an
opportunity of speaking alone to Katie, “I am sorry I vexed you, Miss
O'Byrne.”
“It was stupid of me to be vexed,” Katie said, “but I always hate
surprises, and I thought Sarah had known it all along, and was trying
to make me look ridiculous. I am sorry for it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Then you were not really sorry to see me again, Katie, it was not
that?”
“No,” Katie said gently, “it was not that.”
“I have been looking forward so much to seeing you again,” Frank said.
“Oh, yes,” the girl answered, “I suppose you wanted some one to
plague.”
“Do you really dislike being plagued, Katie, honestly now? I won't do
it any more if you do.”
She was silent awhile, and then said, “I did not like it at first,
but now I begin to understand you I don't mind; only I can't help
being vexed, and then I am ashamed afterwards.”
“Yes, Katie,” Frank said, “I know I used to teaze you abominably; but
you remember what I told you about the sea?”
“Well, Mr. Maynard, you talked so much nonsense, that I can hardly
remember one part more than another.” Katie rose to go to the piano,
but Frank could see by her face that she did remember it for all that.
Katie did not go into Sarah's room that night, but kissed her at
the door. Sarah said, “Katie, dear, the kid gloves will be mine
after all.” The cousin did not answer, but went on into her room
and shut the door. She was happy, and felt that she need not check
herself. Now she really had cause to think that Frank loved her—and
although she had laughingly turned off his words, she felt he was in
earnest—she no longer struggled with her feelings, but acknowledged
to herself, that all along she had loved him.
The next week passed very quietly. Frank still teazed Katie, and
Katie fought sturdily, but she felt the battle was lost. There was
no mistaking the quiet tone in which he sometimes spoke to her, so
different from his general strain of light jesting with her, and the
way in which he spoke to others. She fought because it was her nature
to fight, but she was no longer indignant at his sallies—fought
as a beaten enemy, surrounded and outnumbered fights, as a matter
of honour and not of hope. She resisted occasionally, and tried to
struggle against the influence he exerted over her. But the bird was
in the net and knew it. She beat her wings and fluttered in vain;
and ere the fortnight was over, Frank held her to his heart and her
struggles were over. She was content to nestle there quietly, and
answered as he wished to the question, “And do you believe me at
last, dear Katie?”